Our Mother
by Mystic25
Summary: Sam and Dean talk—about their mom. Set in Season Six.


"Our Mother"

Mystic25

Summary: Sam and Dean talk—about their mom. Set in Season Six.

RATING: T for language.

A/N: As mentioned in the summary, this is set in Season Six. Time lines aren't mentioned that much in the show as far as dates and months are concerned. So, I'm going with the notion that it can be Mother's Day in Sam and Dean's world without anybody being dead, or kidnapped, or fighting a war in Heaven. Also, "The Song Remains the Same" came on in reruns recently, and it gave me more fodder to do something concerning Mary Winchester.

Disclaimer: Eric Kripke, blah blah..BLAH BLAH BLAH!

Happy late Mother's Day everyone.

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"_Memory's a poor thing to have; it's your own real eyes, and lips, and hair that I want."_

-"Will Parry" The Amber Spyglass

"_Companions whom I loved, and I still do love; tell them my song."_

-"Andre Marek" Timeline

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"Dean-" Sam was staring at a kitten calendar that someone had left up on the wall of their latest hotel home. One that clashed horribly with the silhouetted images of naked women sketched spread eagle in checkered squares on the walls.

Dean turned from his actions of cleaning the springs of the trigger on the pearl handled Colt with a horse hair dusting brush. His eyes went up first and then his eyebrows soon followed suit at seeing Sam staring at the picture on the calendar. The one with two calico kittens fighting over a ball of yarn in a white wicker basket.

It was supposed to be something that was marketed as "adorable." Dean, however, called it an "emetic."

"_Kitten calendar_ Sam?" Dean questioned, his raised eyebrow look now firmly affixed on his face. "That's a little much, even for your estrogen levels."

Sam ignored Dean's questioning about his female hormone levels, it was an old joke that desired a old response - nothing. "How come we never celebrate it?"

"What?" Dean said in confusion, now sliding a grease rag through the barrel of the Colt, to oil it. "Kittens? You're asking me why we don't celebrate _kittens?_ Did you run into a Crazy Bus on the way back from grabbing dinner, or is this just a smoke and mirrors way to tell me that you want a lap dance? Because Number Two is a bit of a stretch for me-"

"No Dean," Sam cut him off. "And _NO_ Dean," Sam's voice was as disgusted as the look on his face at Dean's remark. "Stop trying to incest me, you're not that good looking."

"Okay-" Dean pretended offense. "See, now I want a divorce."

"Dude, I'm still trashed from yesterday," Sam returned. "I don't need bad visualizations on top of it."

They had come into Wyoming two days ago to flush out a Shape Shifter whose cloning of choice was to become a Wendigo; which they didn't know at first. So it took much, _much_ longer to dispatch the thing because they didn't know what the hell they were killing until it had started shedding into a new form. They had wasted it with silver bladed daggers, and stumbled into their hotel room an hour later. By that time they were both soaking wet from rain, covered in scrapes from the fight, and not a little dirt. That was at six in the morning, and they had both basically dropped from exhaustion, sleeping until six that evening.

After a shower and trip to a local diner for a meal, they started to clean their weapons before they packed them up in the army surplus duffle with the others. But Sam had halted in his actions of cleaning his silver .45 caliber Vector when he came across the calendar, and saw what day it was. The gun was abandoned on the night stand as he stared at the date, the relization of its signifance sinking in.

"Then, pray tell, what does Sammy need?" Dean said in an over done Shakespearian tone, loading the Colt's circular chamber with bullets before snapping it shut. "Because, remember what I said about Number Two being off the table-"

"What I need is an answer," Sam cut Dean's crude joking off again.

"To what?" Dean asked, purposely being difficult, but also not really knowing what Sam meant, because his brother hadn't really _told_ him anything.

Sam sighed. "You know what."

"If you mean that vagueness from before Sam, then I _don't,_" Dean responded. "So why don't you just enlighten me instead of making me play the guessing game that only you and chicks like to play-"

"Mother's Day," Sam pointed an index finger at the date block on the calendar with the aforementioned holiday's name written in flourished cursive script. "How come we don't celebrate Mother's Day?"

He watched the joking smirk fall from Dean's face like an object he had lost his grip on and was sent clattering to the floor.

Dean hadn't realized what day it was, until Sam had just pointed it out. His hands stopped moving around the Colt. He laid the gun down on the comforter of the bed he was sitting on. "C'mon Sammy, you're asking me this _now? _After everything you know about mom? Everything you_ saw?"_

"That's just _it_ Dean!" Sam walked away from the horridness of overly cute looking kittens, and stepped in between the two queen sized beds, until he was standing next to his brother. "I _don't_ know mom."

"What are you talking about?" Dean said in disbelief. "Dude, you spent two days with the woman via Castiel American Air."

"It was 1978 Dean!" Sam reminded, pointing out a fact that would have sounded crazy to anyone else but them. "She was only 24, that's four years younger than I am now! When I met her, I was old enough to be her brother or her _boyfriend-"_

"Okay-" Dean stood up from the bed and pointed a finger in Sam's direction. "You take that back right now. The mental images you just gave me – dude, that's _disgusting_!" Dean paused, "C'mon Sammy, you know mom." Dean had changed his tone to the amused disbelief he had given Sam when they were kids when his brother refused to believe in something Dean knew to be true. Like that ice cream was cold, or that monsters under the bed could be kept at bay with a ring of Salt Peter around it.

"Not like you Dean," Sam's voice had a way of going quiet when he said something that fought inside him to not be said at all. His eyes reflected that turmoil. They were searching and sad without wanting to be. "I'll never remember mom like you. She was gone before I could remember anything about her." He laughed like the wind scattering leaves across a field of empty asphalt. "One trip back to the past isn't going to change that."

Dean felt something creep inside him at the look on Sam's face, something that felt only sad, and it came to life inside his eyes, breaking though the defense he tried to block it with. "Sam-"

"She's our mother Dean," Sam laughed dryly again, a habit he couldn't get rid of when he was failing to keep something away that hurt. "And all I have of her are stories in my head. Stories that _you_ told me. And you didn't tell me enough of them. So I have nothing-" his voice broke off into a tremble. He bit his lip and rolled his eyes upward to the stained popcorn ceiling to keep the moisture locked away that wanted to come out.

What crept into Dean, what was sad, now became painful. He remembered all the times as kids when Sam would ask about their mom. What she looked like, what games she'd like to play, why'd she have that song named after her if she wasn't around to sing it? Things that Dean knew the answers to, but he had kept from him.

_Dean crept out of bed at night, padding down the carpeted stairs. He came into the den, hearing the sounds of music coming from the RCA record/cassette combo player. A mustard yellow swivel arm chair turned around and Mary Winchester stared at her son, 'catching him.'_

_Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail, and her white nightgown was partially hidden by a corn flower blue terry towel robe, something that Dean loved the smell of, especially after she had just come from the shower. _

_Mary didn't scold Dean standing there in red flannel pajamas, up two hours past his bed time. She just smiled at him, a warm, caring smile that instantly made Dean feel safe, and she held out her arms. "Come here baby and keep me company. I can't sleep either; you're little brother won't let me."_

_Dean ran to the chair, jumping into his mother's lap, almost gone due to an 8 ½ month pregnant belly. Mary caught him with a grunt and settled him against her, and cuddled him. And as they listened to her old 45 Beatles Album, Dean drifted off to sleep as she hummed Her Song._

Dean had kept these memories from Sam because he wanted to protect him. Protect him from memories that were only real inside his head, and at best second hand to Sam. But, what good was protection when it failed? When in trying to keep Sam from being hurt, he was _hurting_ him because his brother _wanted_ to remember. Because that kind of hurt he was willing to take, because it was worth the pain.

"She would sing when she cooked," Dean's didn't have a story teller's voice, but it didn't matter, because it was the _story_ that was important, not how it sounded. "All the Beatles songs-" he watched Sam hold each word he said with rapt attention. "The entire White Album was played out over green beans and charcoal steaks."

"_Charcoal steaks?" _Sam repeated this on a laugh, a quick one at the thought of what kind of food their mom cooked that could earn such a nickname.

"Yeah, Dad loved his meat well done. But she always managed to burn them black. So he told her that it was great that she was making extra charcoal to burn in winter-" Dean laughed, remembering something he hadn't spoke of in over 25 years. "And one time, mom, she told him to ''bite her', right there in front of me. And she couldn't even punish me when she caught me using that phrase the next day on the playground."

Sam laughed again, a laugh that echoed an: _'of course you did' _to his brother. "Some things never change dude."

"Hey, I learned from the best," Dean said proudly. "But, my favorite memories were always after your Sasquatch girth had been born. You would be crying or crapping your little heart out, and mom would be in the nursery taking care of you. I'd come in, and she'd look up at me and smile. And she always invited me over to this rocker she kept for you in the corner to sit with you guys when you were done being gross. She'd sit there with you on her lap, me squeezed in between, and she'd put her arm across my shoulders and sing her favorite Beatles song-"

"_Hey Jude"_ Sam said, remembering. Remembering when Dean had told their young mother about this back in 1978; and saw how the she had responded with such real emotion, because it was all true. He was supposed to be helping pre-hunter John Winchester, but he had been listening.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "It was the first song I ever remember hearing." Dean didn't really remember what his first memory was. But he did remember her singing him this song, each night, and just because, when she could tell that he needed to be comforted. Like right after Sam had been born.

_Dean had come to the nursery when Sam was brought home from the hospital. He had taken one look at the flailing new born, and was terrified, because dad had told him he was a big brother now, and he didn't know what to do. _

_John had gone out for a diaper run, and most likely a drink, judgiing by the long, air sucking kiss and 'whoop' of exhubernace he had given his wife before he left. _

_Mary had warned him to come back at a decent hour or HE was cleaning up their son's mess that would wind up on the crib bedding without any diaper on him; but she was smiling just because John looked on so proudly at her with their two boys._

_Mary looked down at her new son, smelling his sweet baby smell, noting how cute he looked, beautiful; just like her and John._

_She turned in the nursery to search for Dean. She spotted him hiding by mahagony stained crib, peering at her from around the corner of it. She shifted Sam to one arm, and walked over to Dean._

_"Come here sweetie, there's someone I want you to meet." She took her son's hand and coaxed Dean over to the rocking chair, letting him climb up in it._

_She knelt down with Sam, swaddled in a white hospital blanket, and placed the baby into Dean's arms, singing snatches of: "Hey Jude" to them both, drawing out the 'la la la' part of the song. She kissed Dean first, and then Sam._

"_You got it baby," Mary reassured Dean, showing him where to place his arms to hold his new little brother._

_Sam gave a newborn's whimper, but Mary rocked the back of the chair with her hand to soothe him. Her four-year-old looked terrifed holding something so new. But, it only lasted for a minuite. Once Sam had started to settle in Dean's arms, lulled by the rocking, Dean stopped looking scared, and just held him, his eyes wide in wonder. _

"_So what do you think sweetie, pretty cool right?" Mary asked him. She looked down at her new tiny son, then back up to her oldest. "Are we gonna keep him?"_

_Dean felt the weight of his baby brother, it wasn't as heavy as he thought. He also liked how he smelled, and that his eyes were so blue when he had stopped crying and had opened them. And he liked how he wiggled in his blanket. Dean nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah mommy! Let's keep Sammy!"_

_Mary laughed a laugh of pure warmth, hearing Dean's exclamation. "'Sammy' That is an awesome nickname to give him kiddo." She caressed Dean's hair with a slow tracing thumb. "I think we'll keep that too." She smiled at both her sons, "His first present from his big brother." She kissed Dean again. _

"What else?" Sam's remark was said when he lost the restraint with his tears and one fell silently. What Dean was telling him, it was something he never knew, never even remembered. But, it was all so wondrous, that he didn't want him to stop. "Dean, what else?"

Sam sounded so sad and haunted and craving, and wanting, wanting it all now that he had seen what it was like through his brother's eyes.

He wanted their mom.

But, she was gone, and in her absence, all he had was her story. The one she had left for her oldest son to tell.

"Her tomato and rice soup would blow your mind," Dean continued, almost tasting it as he talked, feeling the memoires come out of hiding, more and more of them wanting to breathe the air of the world they were born in. "And she would tousle my hair when she gave it to me. But since _you_ barely had hair back then, she would rub your little bald head when she dished it up to you-"

"She fed it to me?" Another tear had fallen down Sam's eye, tracing down his lips, making him taste it's saltiness as he talked.

"Dude, she _tried,"_ Dean said, trying to laugh through the one drop that fell down his own face, making him taste saltines too. "But, you were just as bullheaded as now. You'd fling half of it on the walls, and the rest went down your clothes. You looked like a freakin' Picasso! By then mom would be laughing so hard and asking dad for the Polaroid at the same time."

Sam wanted to touch Dean's words like they were solid; something that he could hold in his hand that would be from their mom. "What about 'Her Song'? Did she really sing it as much as _"Hey Jude?"_

This time Dean didn't laugh, he smiled slow, sweet and sad, _"'Let it Be.' _It had her name in the lyrics so I thought it was about her. She did the whole 'amuse the boy' thing and called it "Her Song." But every time after that, she would call it "Her Song", even to dad. And she could _sang_ it Sammy. She hit notes Lennon never even heard of."

What would have been a chuckle came from Sam's mouth; but instead it was an infusion of everything that missed his mom. "She really rocked it out huh?"

"She was no Janis Joplin," Dean told him. "But it didn't matter; she was still a rock star. And it made her cry every time, _every time_ man. And, I'd ask her: 'why are you crying mom?" Dean's voice wanted for a breath that he refused to pause for. Because if he stopped, the burning that was suddenly in his throat would choke him. "And she'd say: 'Because I really love my song baby."

"I remember you having a fit when you were seven and dad ran across on the dial in the Impala and he changed the station-" Sam had to pause too, because what was burning Dean's throat, was now burning his. "And you tried to sing it to me when I had that case of bronchitis a few months later. You told me: 'It's Her Song Sammy. She's in there somewhere, she'll help you." The burning became stronger; it wanted to be become sobbing. It wanted it so badly that Sam was having a hard time keeping it away anymore. "Dean – why haven't you told me any of this before? Those memories, they aren't mom, but they're _something-"_

"They're not enough Sam," Dean said, swiping two fingers across the edges of his mouth to try and hold onto the part of him that was strong, but it was failing. "They'll never be enough. How could I give you some cheaply faxed carbon copy, when I had the real thing?"

"Dean-"

"I miss her Sammy." What Dean said hurt like a wound that he had forgotten wasn't healed until he grazed it again and felt the resulting pain. "I wish you knew her from more than just stories. I'm thirty-freakin'- two years old man, and I'm still going to say this: "I want my mom-" He broke off into a half attempted laugh, but, despite how hard he was trying to make it sarcasm, his laughter only sounded sad.

"I want her too Dean," there was nothing else that Sam could say, the hurt wouldn't let him. "I want her so damn bad. I don't even remember her, but I still want her-" His laughing sounded like his brother's.

They didn't want anything monumental or supernatural, they wanted something simple.

Her.

But, it was always those simple things that you could never have except in memories and dreams, something you could only touch when it wasn't really there.

"It doesn't get any easier with first hand memories Sammy," Dean said, not even pretending anymore that this didn't feel any way but aching. "It just makes it hurt differently."

There was a silence, quiet and long enough to let both of them feel the tugging that was threatening to undo them. The place where Mary Winchester had kissed both of them on the day they were born. The whispered _"I love you," _from her lips that hurt now because they had become just memories.

Sam cleared his throat, because it was clogging, still wanting him to choke him with sobs because it was starting to hurt to breathe. "I think we both want drinks."

Dean sucked in a breath that was as wet as his eyes. He swiped at them with his knuckles so fast that Sam turned away. Because, it was a rule between them; they couldn't both break down at the same time. They had to fall apart in shifts or they'd both be useless. "I'll drink to that dude."

Sam opened the white fridge set below the mini bar, pulling out a four ounce bottle of Jose Cuevero. He poured the alcohol into two clean glasses he found stacked on the counter, handing one of them to Dean.

Dean took the cup in his right hand, and held it up. "To mom."

"Happy Mother's Day." Sam clinked his glass with his brother's and both sipped the burning rum.

When the burning hit Sam's throat, it met the burning that was already there. And the result of this was a blinding; choking that doubled him over in coughing.

"Sam!-" Dean set his glass down on counter so fast that it fractured on the bottom. "Dude, you okay?" He pounded on Sam's back to try and help him breathe.

"I'm okay Dean," Sam said around a burning cough. "Went down the wrong pipe-" he coughed for another moment, then righted himself, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Dean picked up the bottle of Jose Cueveros, examining the sloshing, amber colored alcohol inside like it had suddenly gone bad. "You know, this isn't going to do it for me tonight." He set the bottle back down and turned back up to face his brother. "We passed a bar on the way in. Place looked a little like a 'just turned 21' establishment. But still, if they have alcohol-"

"Meet you in the car?" Sam said, immediately taking to the idea that involved copious amounts of alcohol being added to their bloodstreams. "I just have to put away the cache."

"Five minutes Sam," Dean responded, walking over to the plastic chair where he had flung his black wool coat. He slid it back on his body, grabbed his keys from the pocket and walked out the door.

Twenty minutes later Dean pulled the Impala alongside a gleaming red Mini Cooper. He glanced out the windshield at the neon lights that proclaimed: '_Rock Barz Establishment'_, noting how "bars" was spelled with a "z" in a horrible dooshbag attempt to try and be trendy.

"This place better have something harder than Apple Tinins-" Dean slid out of the driver's side door. The air outside was warming, but the coolness of winter still tried to bite her way in, making jacket still necessary.

A line of 'barely over 21-year-olds', along with a sprinkling of scantily dressed teenagers had formed outside a single red door. Dean was about to take a step towards the black painted building when he noticed the absence of Sam.

He bent down and poked his head inside the still opened door. "Dude, you comin'? I needed to be drunk an hour ago-"

His jab got no response from Sam. His brother just sat there in the car, head bent forward, forehead resting on the console.

Dean drew in a slow breath, one that hurt. _Damn_. He ducked more inside the car so that he was halfway sitting on the driver's seat with one foot hanging out of the open door.

"Sam," Dean placed a hand on his shoulder, letting it rest there. Still, Sam didn't raise his head. "Let's go man, you're not doing this sober." His fingers tightened on the bicep muscle of Sam's shoulder, intent on sliding him out across the long front leather seat.

"Dean-" Sam's voice was quiet, down turned by the dash.

It sounded of everything that Dean hated to hear in his brother's voice, aching, pain, sorrow. Everything that he could do nothing to remove, only to balm. Dean gripped tighter, tugging. "I gotcha Sammy, c'mon-"

"Dean stop," Sam flipped his left hand up so that it was grasping Dean's wrist, halting his pulling. "Listen? Can you hear it?"

"Hear what?" Dean asked.

Sam's right hand was fiddling with the dials of the AM radio. There was a loud cracking of an out of range station, then part of a radio DJ's voice incoherently talking.

Dean was about to ask what he was supposed to be listening too when Sam's last turn of the dial brought the beginnings of a song out of the static, a piano entrance, that was slow, and melodiously deep.

"_When I find myself in times of trouble; Mother Mary comes to me. _

_Speaking words of wisdom, let it be."_

John Lennon's songwriter voice filled the inside of the car, becoming louder as Dean turned up the volume.

"_And in my hour of darkness; she is standing right in front of me. _

_Speaking words of wisdom; let it be." _

Dean drew his other foot inside the car. His grip on Sam's shoulder tightened, and he felt the grip return to him just as strongly from Sam's hand grasping his wrist.

"_Let it be, let it be _

_Let it be, let it be _

_Let it be, let it be_

_Whisper words of wisdom; let it be."_

Something wet dripped onto Dean's wrist, followed by torn, echoless cries from Sam. His shoulders were shaking but, he made no more sound than this. And it was so much more heartbreaking than real sobs because he was trying so hard not to drown.

Dean released Sam's shoulder, bringing his hand up to the back of his brother's neck. He palmed it, rubbing slow circles there under his thumb. Something wet fell again onto his other wrist, but he couldn't tell where it came from, him or Sam. Because he had started to cry too.

"_And when the night is cloudy; _

_There is still a light that shines on me. _

_Shine until tomorrow; let it be."_

Dean closed his eyes and heard a different voice above John Lennon's. One that was off key, higher, warbling, but beautiful, because it wasn't perfect –it was her.

"_I wake up to the sounds of music; _

_Mother Mary comes to me. _

_Speaking words of wisdom; let it be."_

Behind Dean's closed eyes, tears fell that were defiantly his because they burned his skin. He pulled Sam closer by the hand on his neck. Sam's hand on his shoulder stopping him from pulling anymore.

Dean lowered his head two increments to hover in the space between them; where they would have foreheads touching had they been closer. There was only breathing, and a messy silent crying, but it was their embrace.

Then Dean released his brother to clean himself up while he did the same with a swipe of hands over his face. "We probably look like enough of hell to score a round of sympathy drinks Sammy."

Sam laughed through a deep inhaling of dried tears. "Bring it on Dean."

This time when Dean climbed out of the Impala, Sam joined him.

As Sam was rounding the side of the car, he caught the sight of his older brother leaning against the hood, staring up at the night sky.

There were only a handful of clouds that did not mask the thickness of the stars. Dean stared at their glowing lights, all the constellations that hung suspended in blackness. His next words blew away with the cold breeze as he said them:

"Love you mom."

Beside him, Sam placed a kiss on his fingers and raised it up to the night, to plant it among the stars, to some place he hoped she could see it, and remember them.

He lowered his hand, placing it for a brief moment on Dean's shoulder, before they both started across the parking lot to the bar.

"_Let it be, let it be _

_Let it be, let it be _

_Let it be, let it be _

_Yeah there will be an answer; let it be."_

_Let it be, let it be _

_Let it be, let it be Let it be, let it be _

_Whisper words of wisdom; let it be."_

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End.

Every other fic I've read about Mary Winchester's memory all centered on _Sam's _loss. But, no one seems to remember, that she was Dean's mother too. And just because he remembers her, it doesn't make him immune to her loss. They both miss her; she was _their_ mom.

Mary's song came to me with a chill when I remembered the lyrics to "Let it Be" and because it was sung by a Beatle, I knew it was meant to be.

R/R please.

Peace

Mystic


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